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Gayfeather, colic-root, rattlesnake-master, blazing star,( devil's bite, Cahaba torch, prairie-pine,) I took your list to that fireworks store in Upland, gathered & checked off each rocket, then imagined how you'd stare at a forest fire (guilty? gleeful?) as I put them all back.

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Shedding my outermost skin all at once like a snake rather than gradually and imperceptibly like a coward.

Counting pelvic bridge reps in the whispered salival creak of a sclera-less ghost girl.

Jarringly whimsical guilt/stress dream in which the (real) pipe failure under my bathroom had been caused by the dense-packed abundance of overripe wild strawberries cached in the wall cavities by the assorted mammals (coatis, dwarf bears, etc.) I'd negligently allowed to roam the house.

It fried my modem right that instant, via the coax not the outlet as best I can tell. What an expensive little noise.

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The lightning that just severed our internet struck close enough for me to hear a small, directed snap before the general shaking crash, like a brattish cloud popping its bubblegum behind my left ear.

Reaching off to the side for some particular emotion/grudge/affiliation, groping at empty air because an entire shelf has collapsed unnoticed.

I regret to inform you that an album signed in your blood has been resold for $11.99.

Assisted a game but aimless armored youth off the thoroughfare. (Turtles begin brigandined, shell-plate in egg-leather, then discard the leather as an outmoded encumbrance. Iconoclasts.)

"I felt I'd incurred a great debt at birth, and now I don't. I forget what happened in the interim."

The (arguably) first recorded jazz band losing their pianist to the 1918 Flu and their trombonist (temporarily) to a Great War draft is a handy chronoceptive reference point.

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As a kid I assumed that dusty haunted house jazz was a 1950s recontextualization prompted by distance and decayed shellac, but no! that association was intended right from the first jass recordings. Rib cage percussion is a supracentennial institution.

Cobbling a stolen dwelling from the corners of your ceiling, their awkward crawlspace, and the rear three feet of a too-deep mower shed. Paintings hung over the joins while further seizures are diagrammed.

Watching, past flicking fins, red efts leaving the clear water above you.

Every year spent untended on the waterfront makes the Ghost Ships of the Delaware field guide more precise. When you see those masses wavering above the spume remain obstinately dark through a lightning flash, you'll tick Masted Topsail Schooner on your checklist and know what to do.

There's no reason beyond habit for screamed vocals to be confined to heavy genres.

butcher bird,
built a ship,
caught grapnel prongs in a fin whale's lip.
far offshore,
quelle veinarde,
impaled herself on a topsail yard.

Can't die 'til I've gathered sufficient intimates to justify a granular seven page will disbursing my worthless possessions in alternately acid and affectionate manners.

Keep a matched pair of Newfoundlands named Onerous & Dolorous, allow them to roam your damp estate. Plant dense, hindersome stands of willow and let white paint flake from your window frames.

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Eldritch Café

Une instance se voulant accueillante pour les personnes queers, féministes et anarchistes ainsi que pour leurs sympathisant·e·s. Nous sommes principalement francophones, mais vous êtes les bienvenu·e·s quelle que soit votre langue.

A welcoming instance for queer, feminist and anarchist people as well as their sympathizers. We are mainly French-speaking people, but you are welcome whatever your language might be.